


Curl me up inside you, Chris/Karl, R, rpf, image heavy

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Embedded Images, LiveJournal, M/M, fic import
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:10:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter





	Curl me up inside you, Chris/Karl, R, rpf, image heavy

A long-misplaced comment fic for the Team Jones Daily Captain and Doctor, written for this particular image, now recaptured thanks to the brilliance of [](http://emiliglia.livejournal.com/profile)[**emiliglia**](http://emiliglia.livejournal.com/) :

It's this thing Chris does-- Karl's sure he's not even aware-- but when Chris is feeling uncertain-- unhappy-- peculiar-- he curls in on himself.

He's even furnished his house to suit that particular need-- armchairs all over the place, and Chris never sits in them the right way, it's always back against one arm, legs over the other so he can draw in one leg, then the next, feet pale and bare, bony ankles looking tender and strange under the hems of his sweatpants as he reads one of the too many books in his house. The boy spends too much time in his head, or at least that's what Karl's thought, the few times he's crashed at his pad when the hotels were all full and he's needed to someplace to stay for auditions.

Karl first noticed it out on one of the flights to god knows fucking where-- it all blended together-- the way the kid would just hump up on one and a half of the seats until he'd assumed the fetal position, then refuse to budge no matter who tried to move him. Zach had observed how it was funny how someone who was six one and not that small a guy could compact himself into so small a space, but after watching Chris drink himself blindingly drunk after the first few times he'd gotten pap-stalked, Karl didn't think it was funny at all.

If you interrupted him while he was mulling, he'd uncurl-- give you his attention, a smile, a sardonic eyebrow, hell, even fold those lanky legs out of the director's chair he'd somehow folded himself into during one of the unending interviews-- and join you if you nagged him enough, but there was always some part of him that wasn't quite there.

But he hadn't figured it out until he saw the publicity stills for Farragut North, when some enterprising photog clearly caught Chris while he was trying to run lines by himself-- half curled up on himself in one of the chairs in the theater, and pissed that he'd been interrupted.

The kid felt completely alone, and while he didn't want to be, clearly, he resented anyone bugging him, too. He was totally screwed in the head, and Karl was tired of watching it happen.

He did it on barstools when the cast went out drinking, pulling one leg up under himself when they sat, showing off long-limbed flexibility along with that feeling of solitude in the way he held on to his own thigh, his own knee. He did it when they were all sharing cabs, curling into the corner between the seat and the door and agreeing to take the last dropoff home, even if it meant the longest ride for himself while he rested his chin on his knee and looked out the window, a still look on his face.

Who knows what it is about the whole thing that breaks him-- all he knows it it's two weeks after Chris' newest movie and their attempt to go out to dinner's been spoiled because the paps are just drooling because it's a hit. They got as far as La Cienega, but the assholes were driving like fucking bastards, and Karl was honestly worried they were going to get in a crash.

"Just..." he started to say, and Chris jerked the wheel on the car and turned it around, heading back home. He didn't say a word as they went back in the house. It wasn't how Karl'd planned his next to last night during this brief stay with his pal.

"Fucking vultures," he muttered, because they were incredibly awful, they weren't ever this bad with Karl, but Chris didn't answer. He'd already gone back to the backyard, flopped down on the hammock, knees under his chin as he pulled out a book Karl knew he'd read at least five times before.

He dialed the phone and ordered some Thai.

\--

After dinner, Chris deigned to sit on the couch, but he still hadn't said a damned word, and his expression was so fucking wounded as he pulled out a script and started to read, his chin on his knee and the other leg tucked under his ass, a compressed packet of Chris that brought back to Karl-- the trepidation that had been on his face when he'd first suggested they go out to dinner.

"Is it like that every time?"

Chris didn't look up from his script as he said-- flatly-- "pretty much."

Karl'd noted there were paps lurking, but Chris hadn't been going out as Karl came and went from auditions and this-- this was why. Chris said nothing further, just looped one arm further around his leg until the bones of his exposed elbow stood out, sharp and stark.

Hugging himself, because nobody else was going to do it.

Fuck that shit.

He was on the couch-- tugging-- unfurling-- feeling resistance-- pushing and ironing flat all the folds Chris had made of himself from the creases at the sides of his eyes to the cut of his obliques when Karl pushed his shirt up and licked at his abs. And then there was pressing-- sweat-- steaming and sliding and heat and so much friction and snap-tug-taut-tight-push-pull release -- a primal cry unfurling from someplace dark, someplace secret, until they were flat to each other, spent, pressed and compressed, Karl still lodged inside Chris and the heat of it all as they lay-- twined, entangled.

It had begun to get dark, and the breeze from Chris' patio was a little bit cool. There were clothes all over the floor, and what with the sweat and other bodily fluids, it was only natural they both shiver a little. There was a throw on the back of the couch.

Karl dragged it down over them both, hunched them both back until his back hit the back of the couch and the blanket covered the rest of their skin as his cock shrank and softened but didn't quite-- yet-- soften and fall out.

There were arms over waists, legs entangled, parts still inside other parts. He stuck his nose in Chris' ear, breathed there a bit. Chris curled even closer, his breathing falling towards sleep.

(And for those of you wondering, the title does come from a line in the chorus of [Suzanne Vega's "Gypsy."](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PXoMQwXvW60))  



End file.
